


Some People

by torikabori



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (But Mostly Angst), Fluff and Angst, Gen, See Author's Notes For Warnings, jumping on the Victor's Parents Suck bandwagon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torikabori/pseuds/torikabori
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, the Sochi Grand Prix Final was not the first time Victor Nikiforov fell in love, and coaching Yuuri Katsuki was not the first reason he almost walked away from skating forever.Both of these things happened when he was twelve years old.(Or: how Victor wound up with the best dog in the world.)





	Some People

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all mind if I just... pause in the middle of an emotional moment in my other fic... to post something a million times more upsetting? Yeah? Yeah. :')
> 
> At least this is a oneshot, so for once! I've completed something in a timely manner!! HUZZAH.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: this fic contains, uh, many references to/implications of cruelty and neglect towards children and animals. There's nothing overly graphic, but it's way more than a passing mention, so... yeah. There's also a death, but not until the very end. Because I'm a terrible person. Other warnings are in the end notes, so you can avoid spoilers.

Contrary to popular belief, the Sochi Grand Prix Final was not the first time Victor Nikiforov fell in love, and coaching Yuuri Katsuki was not the first reason he almost walked away from skating forever.

Both of these things happened when he was twelve years old.

Back then, his father was still making an effort to stay in his life, his mother was still making an effort to tolerate the man long enough for little Vitya to get his visits, and Victor himself still used the off-season as actual time off. Victor's mother deposited him at her ex-husband's house for the weekend, determinedly not saying anything about the _new_ Madame Nikiforova, and even smiled at her boy before she drove off.

(Victor had been born in the spotlight, to the wealthy investor Sergei Nikiforov and the supermodel Irina Vasilieva. He was actively studying to be a professional dancer and athlete. Even back then, he knew a fake smile when he saw one.)

Sergei introduced the boy to his new wife, who was young and beautiful like Victor's mother had been once. This lady, Natalia, gave Victor a fake smile too, and bent down to shake his hand in a way that let him admire her manicure. Victor complimented it, Natalia giggled, and Sergei proudly called him a  _ladies' man, just like his dad_ , while Natalia bragged about of the spa day he'd bought for her.

(Sergei at least waited a few years before he started describing the way his wives and girlfriends paid him back for these gifts, and a few years more before giving Victor any dating advice. Victor would realize things about his father that day, and it would be the last time they ever spoke.)

Victor asked what else they'd done for each other, since they both seemed so happy and he wanted to someday find a partner that made him that happy, too. The two were thrilled to talk about themselves, and went on and on about their recent wedding and honeymoon, about Natalia's birthday party, about her favorite gift.

And that was when Victor met her.

"Isn't she just the sweetest thing?" Natalia gushed. "And so small!"

"Genuine purebred," Sergei added. "Only the best for my girl."

Victor held the tiny poodle in his lap, marveling at the soft fur, the big wet nose, the way the puppy wriggled her clumsy little body so she could set her paws on his chest and sniff at his face.

"Amazing," he said, and for the first time that day he meant it. "Nice to meet you, Makkachin! Did you know you're the cutest puppy in the world? Yes, you are!"

(Victor would have several dogs after her, but he would privately maintain that Makkachin was the cutest puppy ever-- _ever_ \-- for the rest of his life.)

Victor spent the entirety of Friday evening with the dog. He sat with her while Sergei talked some more, fed her scraps under the table at dinner, and even asked for her crate to be put in the guest bedroom with him for the night. When he was sure his father and stepmother were asleep, he let Makkachin onto the bed with him. He slept in too late to put her back in the morning, but luckily Sergei just laughed and told him he was welcome to let her up so long as he was willing to keep the door closed and keep the animal in the doggy diaper.

"Doggy diaper?!" Victor asked, delighted.

(Makkachin would actually not need one until she was very, very old.)

Victor had a wonderful weekend, mostly because he was allowed to spend it with the puppy. He played with her on the floor while Natalia watched TV and took her on walks while Sergei smoked a cigar. He took all the photos that would fit on his new digital camera. He began mentally constructing arguments as to why he should be allowed to visit his father more, whose expensive and smelly townhouse was suddenly the best place in the world.

When Victor had to go home, he nearly cried.

"I'll come back soon," he promised Makkachin, and he pretended not to notice Sergei giving his ex-wife a victorious look, thinking their son was talking to him. Victor also pointedly didn't notice Irina's chilly glare in response, or the sharpness of her tone when she asked how he spent the weekend.

He told her honestly, excitedly, about the new friend he'd made. He told her how Makkachin loved her tennis ball and her squeaky toy and the little purse Natalia carried her in, and how Victor even got to hold the purse for a while but he preferred holding Makkachin by herself, because she was so soft and cuddly and she hardly weighed anything at all.

"And did you know her mother was a showdog? Dad says that's like a dog supermodel, so Makkachin is just like me! And she never gets tired of playing or talking. Mom, what if we got a puppy--"

"Absolutely not," Irina snapped. They didn't have the space or the time or the money, she explained. "And those two don't have the patience, anyway. Mark my words, Vitya, they won't have that animal for long."

Well, if Makkachin really needed so much patience, then she and Victor were even more alike, and therefore should look out for one another. Obviously, he would have to start visiting his father's place a lot more often.

(Victor's skating coach did not like him visiting Sergei at all, or even staying too long at his mother's apartment. Mr. Feltsman cited health concerns, since they both smoked, and there was the issue of time spent away from practice, but Victor worked harder than any other student and he hardly asked for anything, even in the off-season. Victor would only learn much later that Yakov had other reasons to dislike his parents.)

The next time Victor saw Makkachin, she had doubled in size and energy and would barely fit in the purse. She loved to play fetch in the park, and she loved to chase Victor around on the grass even more. Despite her growth he still had a lot more stamina than she did; it got to the point where she was wheezing. But she thought Victor wanted to keep going, so she ran and ran until her little legs collapsed, and then panted happily in Victor's arms while he carried her home.

("Just like her papa," Victor's husband would joke, years later when Victor relayed the story.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Victor would say airily, while his heart swelled at being called Makkachin's _papa_.)

The next time, he brought her a new chewtoy and played with her all weekend again, to the baffled amusement of his father and the baffled annoyance of his mother. When he called his father's house during the week he asked them to give the phone to Makkachin. He talked about her to any rinkmates and classmates who would listen. Besides skating, he had never loved anything so much.

Eventually, his mother started leveraging dog visits for chores. Victor thought this was the height of injustice, but he did them, and he was soon spending nearly every weekend with his fluffy friend.

"You're such a nice boy, Vitya. I don't have the patience for her anymore," Natalia told him one day, watching Makkachin spring at Victor's face for the third time in as many minutes. It made Victor pause, hearing his mother's words from the younger lady. "I can't stand when she jumps on me!"

"Had to give the little monster a smack the other day," Sergei commented with a sigh. "It wouldn't stop yapping."

Victor looked up, startled. How could anyone hit this sweet little creature? "I'm sure she didn't mean to be annoying. Did you, Makka? I bet you just wanted to talk! Isn't that right, sweetie?"

Makkachin responded by chewing on the end of his braid, making him squeak in the most unmanly way. Sergei and Natalia had a good laugh, and the subject dropped.

But after that, Victor started noticing things. The couple loved to take pictures and show off their puppy, but they seemed to grow weary of the mundane tasks of caring for her. Feeding time was met with an annoyed grimace; walks were brief; by this point Victor was the only one buying her new toys and treats. She was still just as perfect as ever, but she wasn't so small anymore, and even with occasional hired help she wasn't so low-maintenance.

Victor thought of his own mother, who had put him in commercials and morning talk show specials since age three, who would bring dates to his ice shows and dance recitals. She loved to show him off, loved to hear praise for her beautiful and talented boy. But she would lament the expense of his skating, she told him to be quiet if he went on too long about this season's music or the latest book he'd read, she went to the other room if he whined or cried or asked for too much.

(She had also once accused him of ruining her body and her life, and she'd apologized for her outburst the next day but he knew, even then, that those words would leave a mark.)

"If you lived with me all the time," Victor whispered to Makkachin, holding her close, late at night in the too-warm guest room of his father's house, "we could cuddle and play whenever you wanted. I'd walk you every day and take you all over the city, and I wouldn't even complain when I had to clean up your poop or take you to the vet. And you'd never get bored of me, would you? I bet you'd never tell me to shut up or get to the point, and you'd always want to help me with dance practice. We'd spend every night like this. Would you like that, Makka?"

Makkachin voiced a small _whuff_ , and it sounded almost like a yes. When Victor started to cry a little, she licked his face until he laughed.

(Years later, when Victor's depression got worse before it got better, this dog would be his lifeline.)

"Mom," Victor said, as they drove back home, "do you really think Dad would give her up?"

"Oh, is he already tired of that bimbo?" Irina smirked as she glanced back in the rearview mirror. "I thought they'd last another year, at least. I guess she has put on a few pounds since the wedding."

Victor frowned. The way his mother talked about his father's ladyfriends always made him feel weirdly guilty. "I meant Makkachin."

"What, the dog? I'm shocked that's lasted this long. It'll probably be gone by the end of the month."

Victor did not ask what would happen to her if they gave her up. He was young, but he was not naive, and he had grown up in St. Petersburg. He knew what happened to dogs like Makkachin, if they didn't find someone else to take her. Victor had even seen it done: a policeman cleaning up some strays, a neighbor tossing her old cat out on the street when she moved to a smaller apartment. Victor knew most people didn't lose sleep over unwanted animals. But this was Makkachin-- surely she was different?

"Do you think they might keep her? She's a good dog." He tried not to let his voice waver. "She's a really good dog."

Irina sighed. "Victor, some people just aren't cut out for these things."

(Many years later, he would use those words to explain his parents. Like him, they both carried a deep and lonely sadness, and were always looking for something new and exciting to make them feel alive. But while Victor learned to fill the void in his heart with skating, his parents would have used a new house, a new car, a new puppy, a new baby. Sergei and Irina had fallen in love with the idea of a son, just as they'd once loved the idea of each other. The reality-- the dull daily chores of building something that would last, of staying in love when things were no longer new-- well. Some people just aren't cut out for these things.)

He got the news on a Tuesday, while he was sneaking a glance at his cell phone during lunch. He usually ate alone, and Natalia was the only one not at work, so she texted him.

 _say goodbye to Makka!_ the text said, like that was that, like it was no big deal. _its just too much work :(_

Victor stared at the tiny screen, slackjawed and sick to his stomach. Too much work? Too much _work?_ Feeding and petting a tiny creature who only wanted to love you was too much _fucking work?_

 _when is she leaving,_ he responded quickly, having to type it a few times so that it was not obvious his hands were shaking. _can I see her this weekend_

It took five agonizing minutes before he got an answer.

_actually S is going to Prague next week! :D I'm going with him, isn't that exciting? <3_

Another three minutes.

_but pets can't come, so she has to go before. I get squeamish so S will take care of it 2nite_

Victor left his lunch on the table. He sprinted out the door, ignoring the yell of the teacher nearby, his athlete's legs carrying him out the door and off of school grounds before anyone realized what he was doing. His mind was going just as fast.

His mother would not help at all, and she wouldn't leave work for another few hours anyway. Thus he had no ride. His father's house was about forty-five minutes away by car, and about two hours if he took the bus partway and either used a taxi or ran for the rest. He had the remainder of the week's allowance in his back pocket; that would pay for a round trip on the bus or train, but maybe not a cab. Apparently this was a day for endurance training, he thought grimly.

He texted Natalia at the bus stop, saying he was on his way. She sent back question marks. He didn't want to yell at her so he didn't respond.

It was there on the bus, as he sat staring out the window and grinding his teeth through each stop, when the panic started to set in. What was he doing? His mother would be angry. His father would be angry. Hell, his coach would be angry too, he'd probably fire Victor as a skater, and then his mother would be so mad, so disappointed, and he'd already had to beg and plead for her to pay Mr. Feltsman's fees, if he had to get another coach she'd never agree to it, and Victor would never be able to skate again--

And oh, yeah, Victor would have to quit skating anyway, wouldn't he? He couldn't take Makkachin out for walks or feed her on time, especially if he was competing overseas. He didn't have a place to keep her while he was at the rink or the ballet studio or school, and everyone had made it clear he was on his own caring for her. In fact, he probably wouldn't even be allowed back home, with the dog in tow--

Maybe he could just run away? If he didn't have skating anymore, maybe he should. His parents would probably be relieved. He could just go get Makkachin, and they'd run off into the woods together and live off the grid. They were both getting too old to be cute anymore, so no one would miss them anyway. Victor could do it. He could give up skating, dancing, books, music, and all the other nice things in life that he'd wanted to experience someday, if only he could save sweet little Makkachin from joining the hundreds of other dead or abandoned dogs in this city.

Victor was just a few stops away on the bus, staring vacantly out the window as tears dripped onto his lap, when his cell phone rang. Oh god, it was probably his mother.

(Later, he would think it meant something that he was terrified at this idea.)

But it wasn't. It was Mr. Feltsman.

(He would also think it meant something that his coach, not his mother or father, was the first to come looking for him.)

He wasn't sure what made him pick up; maybe he just didn't want to be alone right now.

"H-hello?"

"Victor." Mr. Feltsman sounded like he was gearing up for a long, shouting lecture. "Where are you?"

"I'm--" Victor swallowed, wiped his eyes. He could do this. "I'm just going to my dad's house. I have-- there's something I need to get from there, and, and I'm sorry, coach, but I don't think I'll make practice today."

He heard the crackle of Mr. Feltsman sighing. "Victor," he said, with the same tone that all adults seem to know, the one that meant _tell the truth, young man_.

"I'm sorry. It's important."

"So important that you had to run away from school?"

"Yes. It's Makkachin. She's in trouble."

"Makkachin the _dog?_ " His coach sounded incredulous, and maybe that's what broke him; maybe he just couldn't handle another person acting like his first and only friend's life didn't mean anything.

(Looking back, he would remember this as a turning point: the first time he ever let himself get angry. He couldn't get upset on his own behalf. He couldn't hate his parents for ignoring him, for getting bored with him; he couldn't hate anyone for treating him like a sentient plaything, to be enjoyed and then put away as they pleased; he couldn't hate them for making him believe that he had no value when he wasn't new and fun and surprising. But Makkachin was different. He loved that little poodle more than he could ever love himself, and he could get angry, for her.)

"They're going to kill her," Victor said, voice low and shaking. "They won't take care of her because she's too old and too big, and if my dad doesn't take her outside and do it himself then he's going to dump her on the street, and she'll starve to death or get poisoned or hit by a car or shot. And no one-- no one _cares_ except me, no one else loves her, and I can't skate anymore because she needs me. I'm sorry. I really-- I loved skating with you, coach. Sorry."

The bus reached his stop, and he managed to end the call before he started sobbing. Ignoring the stares of the other passengers, he stumbled blindly off the bus and ran.

When he finally reached the front door and rang the bell, his eyes were dry and his breath came out in an exhausted wheeze.

"Victor?" Natalia asked, staring. "What on earth--"

Victor ran right past her, toward the barking he could hear from a few rooms away.

He almost cried again when he saw: Makkachin was in her puppy crate in the living room, a cage she was now too big to stand up in. Leaning against the bars was a big black trash bag full of her toys, food bowls and other supplies. She barked and barked, scrambling against the front of the crate to get at Victor, whining when her toes got stuck in the metal.

"It's okay, Makka, it's okay," he babbled, dropping to his knees to fumble at the latch. "I'm here now, I got you, you're gonna be okay." Immediately Makkachin burst out and started scrambling onto his chest and shoulders, nearly pushing him over in her frantic effort to be close to him. Victor did start crying a little then, and he let Makkachin slobber and lick his face as much as she wanted.

He was still curled around her, his legs cramping painfully, when he heard Natalia come into the room.

"Yeah," she said into the house phone, "yeah, he's here. Just saying goodbye to the dog."

Victor involuntarily tightened his grip as she came closer. No matter what anyone said, he was not about to let Makkachin back into that cage.

"Victor," Natalia said, sounding uncertain, "your dad wants to talk to you."

Wordlessly he accepted the phone.

"Victor," Sergei's voice had none of its usual cheer, "why the hell is your school asking me where you are?"

Victor shrank a little, but he held his ground. "I forgot to tell them where I was going," he said carefully, "I'm sorry I made you worry. But Makkachin, she--"

An aggravated sigh cut him off. "You know, I really don't understand your attachment to that animal. If I'd known you were going to make a scene like this I'd have gotten rid of it weeks ago. Do not tell me you ran away from school for that."

Makkachin looked up at him with big, trusting eyes. "Please," he said, "just let me take her home."

Sergei snorted. "If Irina wants that creature in her house, she can be my guest. But listen here, Victor, I will not have school officials calling me at work when I am in a meeting with a customer. Is that clear?"

Victor nodded, then remembered to speak up. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I promise I'll take good care of her."

Sergei hung up first.

Victor handed the phone back to a speechless Natalia, not even looking at her. "Hear that, Makkachin?" he asked, scratching her ears, "you're going home with me!"

"I didn't see your mom's car out there..."

"Oh, she parked a ways off. You know how my parents don't get along." Victor was surprised how easily the lie came to him; he supposed Makkachin must be giving him strength. When he thought he could manage it, he gave Natalia his brightest smile. "Anyway, I just came here to pick her up. We can go now. My coach will be so upset if I miss practice!"

Victor fished Makkachin's leash out of the big plastic bag. She gave him a big doggy grin and wagged her tail fiercely when he hooked it onto her collar.

"That's right, we're going outside!" Victor told her. "You ready to walk, Makka? It's, ah, not that far to the car, but we're driving a long way! You can stick your head out the window and feel the breeze!"

He didn't think Natalia believed him, but she let him go anyway. He wrapped the leash around his wrist, hauled the big bag over his shoulder, and marched out of the house.

The bus didn't allow dogs, but the subway did if they behaved. Victor sat away from the door, Makkachin's head on his lap and his legs curled around her protectively. The big trash bag took up two seats next to him. He kept his cell phone off.

When he finally got home, it was almost sundown. He was supposed to be at practice-- cross-training today. He paused in the driveway, staring in confusion at the extra car. Why was his coach here?

Oh god, Mr. Feltsman was probably telling his mother right now about what Victor had done. He should just leave. He should run away right now.

But Makkachin whined at his side, and at the very least he knew neither of them would last much longer without some food and a jacket. So, wrapping her leash tighter around his wrist, he walked forward, climbing the stoop like a prisoner to the gallows.

Inside, his mother sat at the dining room table with his coach. They looked up when he entered: Irina's mouth was set into a hard, furious line, while Mr. Feltsman looked ready to start shouting at any moment. Makkachin stuck her tail between her legs, lowering her head and inching closer, and suddenly Victor found his courage.

"I'm not giving her up," he told them. This time he didn't cry. "Even if I can't skate anymore. Even if I can't live here anymore. No one is going to hurt her."

Mr. Feltsman inhaled, while Irina snorted. "What, are you going back to Sergei's house? Or are you going to get a job at the ripe old age of twelve and raise vermin by yourself?"

"She's not vermin," he said, using a tone that he knew would get him in very deep trouble. He couldn't bring himself to care. "And I'll do whatever I have to. I'm just here to get my stuff."

"Your stuff that I paid for?" Irina asked flatly.

Victor swallowed, holding the leash tighter. If he had to leave empty-handed then so be it; this was one battle that his mother wouldn't win by making him feel bad.

Luckily, Mr. Feltsman broke the uncomfortable silence. "Victor," he said in that gravelly voice, with a hint of disgust on his face, "is this drama your way of telling us you want to quit?"

"I'm not being dramatic." His former coach snorted at that, but Victor held his ground. "This is important."

"Do you want to quit?"

"Of course I don't _want_ to," Victor said miserably. "But I can't take care of her and skate at the same time, can I?"

Mr. Feltsman raised his eyebrows, while Irina rolled her eyes.

"Can I?" Victor asked again, hardly daring to hope.

Mr. Feltsman folded his arms. "Victor, you are one of my most promising students. But promise can only take you so far when you slack off the way you've been doing these past few weeks. If that animal is the only way to motivate you now, then so be it."

Makkachin looked between them, tongue lolling, as if she knew they talked about her.

"So," Mr. Feltsman continued, looking thoroughly unimpressed with this bit of cuteness, "I propose a deal. The dog stays at my house, and I will handle the logistics-- food, kennel stays, what have you-- while you are in school or in training. This includes cross-training, ballet practice, and any time spent on homework." He held up a finger, though that was unnecessary; Victor was too stunned to protest. "You will pay for these things yourself, and I will not commit to buying toys or walking it every day. This creature is your responsibility."

"Of course she is," Victor said quickly. He feared his voice would catch. "But you'll help? You'll let me keep her and still skate?"

"I will make it possible," Mr. Feltsman said firmly. "But just like with skating, the work will be yours."

"And I won't have that dog here," Irina added. "So you'll be spending all your time at school, the rink, or your coach's house."

"Yes," Victor said breathlessly. "I'll do it. I'll do anything. I'll work harder at practice, I'll come by every day to take care of her. I'll be the best student you ever had!"

Yakov Feltsman was not like Irina or Sergei, and did not give any victorious smirks when he quietly won over their son. He took Victor home, grim-faced and grumpy the entire time, and said nothing ill of the boy's parents, nothing good of his dog.

(When Victor later referred to him as 'Makkachin's Grandpa,' Yakov would give a very theatrical, aggrieved sigh; when Victor asked him to take his parents' place in his wedding party, he would show no emotion at all.

But Victor was a world-class athlete, dancer, and celebrity; he had lived in the spotlight for nearly thirty years. He knew a performance when he saw one.)

By the end of the night, Makkachin was settled, and Victor was too deliriously happy about this to care about his punishment for skipping school. By the end of the week, he had redeemed himself, making up all his schoolwork during lunch and coming home so exhausted and pleasantly quiet that even his mother had no complaints. By the end of the month, he hardly saw his parents anymore; by the end of the season, he hardly cared.

"Next year," he said to Makkachin one night, as they both curled up on the queen-size guest bed at the Feltsman residence, which was rapidly becoming theirs, "I'll be old enough to compete in Juniors. Coach Yakov says I shouldn't do quads, but I promised I'd be the best, didn't I? What do you think?"

Makkachin put her head on Victor's bare chest, looking up into his eyes. Cuddling her made it too hot for blankets above the waist, or even a shirt; it was the only way he ever wanted to sleep anymore.

"It'll be tough," he admitted, ruffling her ears in that way she loved. "But I think I can do it. I'm gonna win a gold medal and put it on your collar so we can share it."

She gave a happy sigh, nuzzling closer so that her wet nose bumped him. He flinched at the cold, but smiled.

"Dad says I'm just being dramatic, and Mom says it's all too much and I'll give up in a year," he added, as soberly as any twelve-year-old could be. "But you know what I say?"

Makkachin looked up into his eyes, waiting.

He knew she didn't understand-- she just liked the attention and the sound of his voice, probably. But it still meant something to him, that there was one creature in the world who truly loved him, no matter how disobedient he was, how annoying, how old or unexciting or un-cute. He smiled and wrapped his arms around her.

" _I_ say I'll be a champion, just for you. I say some people just don't know how to stick with something. I say we've got at least thirteen more years-- did you know some poodles live that long?" He closed his eyes, settling down to sleep. "I say make it fourteen or fifteen. You'll be a champion too."

(He would have her for nineteen years.

When it was finally time to let her go, he would not do it alone-- Yakov and Lilia both called him, Yurio and his other rinkmates and competitors texted, the Katsukis and the Nishigoris and Minako each sent him cards all the way from Japan. Yuuri held his hand all morning while they spoke with the vet, then held him for the rest of the afternoon as he read through hundreds, thousands of tweets and instagram and tumblr posts, as an army of skating fans around the world responded to Victor's request for pet stories.

"Look, Makka," Victor whispered, showing her the texts she couldn't read, the cards that probably didn't smell like their senders anymore. He kissed the thinning fur on her head, fluffed her withered ears, let her sniff at him with her tired old nose. He showed her the videos people sent, the pictures and stories, even the shrine that was being set up in their family's onsen, with a framed magazine cutout of them together and Victor's very first gold medal on display with it.

"Look," he said, showing her all the love that surrounded them both. "Look what you started, Makkachin."

So many people loved him now, but she would always be the first.)

**Author's Note:**

> I said I was terrible, didn't I? :')
> 
> A couple notes. There's some things in here that are kept intentionally vague, and I really like that about the fic so I've chosen not to change it, but I also realize that I might have accidentally implied some stuff I didn't warn for? So, to clarify: there's a line that could be read as implying a character is a rapist. He's not. He IS a gross sleazy douche who is deeply unethical about sex and relationships, and he dates women way too young for him, but they are at least consenting adults. There are certain placed I'd rather not go in a oneshot that's about ~a boy and his dog~.
> 
> To also clarify: according to my brief internet research, the stray/homeless pet situation in Russia is HORRIFYING. I originally had Victor being Extra about a thing that happens, but then learned that the consequences for that thing in Russia are VERY DIFFERENT from the place where I live, and no, Victor's completely justified in freaking out. Sorry, Victor.
> 
> Anyway, if you're reading this after the fic, I hope you... enjoyed! That's the word for it, right? Sure.


End file.
